TWENTY-SIX Well, That Escalated Quickly
T RISTAN
Well, that escalated quickly is the only thought careening through my brain as Elle, Jackson, and I lock gazes with each other. I’m half-tempted to assemble the three of us in another room so we can discuss this away from the kid’s ears.
Elliana is the only one who can tell us what to do, but this caveat of her asking Noah what he wants alters the rules. Regardless, I look to her to approve this. She can still choose to shut all this down. The kid’s clearly polluted and has his customary inhibitions disengaged.
I catch Noah ogling all three of us like the Big Bad Wolf would eye Little Red Riding Hood before swigging down the rest of his pina colada. Yeah, he’s drunker than a goddamn skunk right now. Not that I object to anything he’s proposing. I know these people, and I might even trust them. Yet this entire evening has gone from risqué to straight-up rowdy .
Will Elle be all right with that?
I get my answer when she announces all loud and proud, “You’re the birthday boy.”
She lowers herself over Noah’s cock again, licking up and down his shaft. Jackson might cherish that guitar like his infant son—or daughter since he’s named it Zelda of all things—but he sets it down and skates toward Elle so fast he’s basically a blur.
Careening up behind her, he lifts the short skirt she’s wearing and brings down her opaque tights and her—oh yeah—white lace thongs. She has the most alluring underwear in the known galaxy.
He assists her as she steps out of her heels, then whispers something in her ear.
It must’ve been for her to step right back into those shoes again because that’s what she does. Jackson must’ve needed the few inches of height for better positioning. His fingers go between her legs to feel her pussy, then he peers from Noah to me.
“Oh, yeah. She’s ready for me. And Tristan, you’re up.”
It’s not lost on me that I conveyed those precise words to him the night of our trial by fire. He must think turnabout is fair play. Still, for the space of several heartbeats, I watch him as he uses those same fingers to lubricate the tiny pucker of her ass, bending her further forward.
Once his index finger is all the way inside that luscious backside of hers, he unzips and without bothering to drop his jeans any more than necessary, pushes his dick into her promised land.
Everyone but me groans. Jackson, Noah, and Elle all at once, and that’s in spite of her having her mouth full.
Goddamn.
Since the music has now stopped, I trundle over to the large flat-panel TV across from the lounger and initiate YouTube. Searching for “I Want Your Sex” by George Michael, I hit play, then shut my eyes and remember my moves. I skid into it, relying on muscle memory. I used to strip to this one nightly for about eight weeks until I was required to level up to a new routine.
Not that I would ever say I enjoyed stripping for a living, but of all the songs I’ve undressed to, this one made it easy to impersonate the singer, a man with cool confidence who oozed sex appeal.
Everything is going well for a few videos until “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails plays. This one used to be in my rotation, too, until I took it out. And the reason I removed it spins through me as the lyrics of the chorus sound off.
I recall with unfortunate clarity an incident when a party of women—no one seemed to be a bride, so I don’t know what they were celebrating—decided staring at me in a G-string wasn’t enough for them. To this day, I suspect they were doing a lot more than just imbibing drinks as I kept catching glimpses of many of them sniffing something up their noses.
Whatever they took made them difficult to control, and they rushed the stage. We had a couple of bouncers, but that night there was only one. He must’ve been across the room dealing with some other trouble. Either that or he was taking a piss break because no one came to my assistance.
Not even as I tried to break free of them. Not even as I roared for them to get off me and to fucking stop .
There had to have been at least ten of them as they knocked me onto the floor and groped me all over. This sort of thing was expressly forbidden in the bar’s rules, but with no one present to enforce those rules, they had carte blanche to do as they wished.
With them holding me down—at least five were sitting or lying across various parts of my body and one could’ve been a pro weightlifter she was so strong—they shoved my flimsy G-string aside and fisted my cock. The oil that we had to coat ourselves in aided their progress, and they kept going until I came all over them.
They then howled and applauded as if I’d just performed some quaint and entertaining party trick.
Did they release me then? Hell, no. Those women continued to molest me, to trap me beneath them until I came again, complaining when the amount of semen didn’t match up to what I expended that first time.
Even that hadn’t made them quit. I’m certain that despite accomplishing what they wanted, they would’ve likely drained me dry if the bouncer hadn’t finally shown up to haul them off me.
And the whole time, Nine Inch Nails droned on in the background.
Wrenching my eyes open, I freeze exactly where I stand, my heart racing and my pulse pounding. “Closer” is still in its first guttural verse, and I hit the next button on the remote so swiftly that the image hangs a bit until the signal synchs back up.
Meanwhile, the moaning from the sofa is reaching epic levels. Noah is roaring in ecstasy now with his head thrown back, and I can tell that Elle isn’t far behind. Jackson bends his knees and alters his angle as the muscles in his arm flex, demonstrating what his fingers must be doing inside that pucker of hers.
She pushes back against him in a rhythm that’s becoming more and more erratic as she nears that cliff she’s about to tumble over. When she goes off like a Roman candle no more than thirty seconds later, keening and whimpering, Jackson groans and murmurs something akin to, “Yeah, sweet thing, milk me good. Just like that.”
She’s milked me like he’s describing on numerous occasions, but any arousal I may have experienced tonight has been stolen from me. My only saving grace is that I’m fairly sure my lapse has gone unnoticed. At least until Jackson comes back down from his ascent into carnal bliss and lasers in on me.
“Not a fan of Nine Inch Nails, I suppose?”
“Uh, no,” I respond, taken aback.
Why did he have to catch that? I haven’t thought about any of that shit in forever, and a few lines from that goddamn song and I’m right back there laying on that fucking stage floor. Trust Jackson to be the one to acknowledge something I don’t want acknowledged at all.
The birthday boy chooses that moment to giggle—literally—but I don’t mind because it takes any attention that might be aimed my way and flings it in the opposite direction.
I swallow and wince as the imagery from that bar scene carves jagged gullies through my psyche again, the recollections more vivid and real than ever. It leaves me cold all over, not to mention hounded by the sensation of being unwillingly exposed.
Normally, being naked in front of these three isn’t an issue for me, but right now, I despise how it’s making me feel. Keeping my back to everyone, I shimmy back into my clothes. With them occupied, I take the opportunity to exit the room.
Sorry, kid. But I’m not up for any more festivities tonight.